


Part 13: Justin

by oiuytrewq36



Series: Straight to Number One [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: “You’re not planning on taking over my old life, are you?”“I was thinking more of remodeling, adding a little warmth to the place. Putting up some bead curtains, a tie-dye tapestry, maybe a few beanbags…”Brian groans. “I swear to God, Sunshine, if there’s a Big Mouth Billy Bass over the TV the next time I go back-”
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Straight to Number One [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891456
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Part 13: Justin

**Author's Note:**

> This series continues the story started in [We Will Survive](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736).

“This is ridiculous.”

“Hello to you too.” I put the phone on speaker and drop it next to me on the bed. “What’s ridiculous?”

“That we spent four years with you living in New York and me in Pittsburgh, and now I’m living in New York and you’re … in Pittsburgh.”

“How was I supposed to know that PIFA was suddenly going to decide that they wouldn’t store my old work any longer? Besides, it’s not like I won’t be back tomorrow, even if it is kind of great having the loft to myself.”

“You’re not planning on taking over my old life, are you?”

“I was thinking more of remodeling, adding a little warmth to the place. Putting up some bead curtains, a tie-dye tapestry, maybe a few beanbags…”

Brian groans. “I swear to God, Sunshine, if there’s a Big Mouth Billy Bass over the TV the next time I go back-”

I snort. “Even I’m not that tacky. So, how’s the search for the New York management staff going?”

“Terrible, actually. You’d think that there would be at least a few people in this city who have the right skills, know how manage a team, and aren’t old-fashioned as hell, but so far all of the candidates I’ve met with are either too jaded, too inexperienced, or too homophobic to be the right fit for Kinnetik. One of them was all three, which I didn’t even think was possible.”

“Yikes,” I say. “Well, at least you’ve got you.”

He chuckles. “As always. What are you doing?”

“Right now? Nothing. I already brought all the paintings over, and the U-Haul rental is all set for tomorrow.”

“I just want you to know that the effort it’s taking me to not make a lesbian joke right now will cost you a week of morning blowjobs when you get back.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, darling.”

“You in bed?”

“Mmmm. You?”

“Yeah. If I was there right now,” Brian says, evenly, as if he’s reciting a grocery list, “I’d make you sit on my face and lick you open, all rough and sloppy, just the way you like it.”

I whimper. “Brian…”

“Then I’d open you up on my cock, slowly, and by the time I got all the way inside you you’d have already come once, maybe twice.”

I’m pumping lube frantically into one palm as Brian moans, “I’d fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to sit down without thinking of me for a week. You’d be limping everywhere you went, and everyone would know what I’d done to you, what you’d _let_ me do to you.”

If I don’t get something in my ass right this fucking second I’m going to _die_ , so I scrabble for the handle of the toy drawer and pull out the first thing I can get ahold of, a vibrating dildo that we left here when Brian moved most of his stuff to the condo in Manhattan. I haven’t stretched myself nearly enough, but I shove the dildo in anyway, keening, and turn it on. 

“I’d fuck you over and over again until you couldn’t remember your own name, and you’d still beg for more. I’d suck you off, eat you out, finger you, spank you, and you’d just sob and scream and take it, wouldn’t you? And you’d be loving every minute.”

I try to answer him, beg him to keep talking, something, I don’t know, but the only sound I can make is a constricted gasp.

“Justin, _Justin_ , you’d be so gorgeous, naked under me, drunk on so many orgasms you wouldn’t be able to speak and still desperate for me to fuck you again. You gonna let me take you, beautiful?”

“Yes,” I manage to sob, “ _Brian_ -”

He’s coming now, whining the way he does when it’s really good, and I follow him over right away, twitching and gasping and generally losing my mind while the toy pulses inside me and I tug frantically on my dick.

“I love you,” I choke out, and I think I hear him come again, making shuddering moans and tiny pained noises while it rips him apart.

For a while, neither of us do anything but breathe down the line. Then Brian says, “As spectacular as that was, it’ll be great to have you around all the time so we can have real sex whenever we want.”

I’m not completely ready to form words yet, so I just hum in agreement. Wincing, I pull out the dildo and drop it to the floor.

“You okay?” Brian asks.

“Faaaaantastic,” I say, and he laughs.

“Text me when you head out tomorrow, okay?”

I smile and turn onto my back, rolling the kinks out of my neck. “Okay.”

I can’t be bothered to move the phone from where it’s lying after Brian hangs up, much less retrieve the covers from the floor, so I fall asleep just as I am, spread diagonally across the bed where so much of my life has started.

***

Frances comes by the condo the next afternoon to help me and Brian move the canvases and boxes of sketchbooks from our building’s underground parking lot up to my studio. Over the course of several elevator rides, she fills us in on her new job, which, it turns out, she hates.

“I’m a glorified secretary,” she says, hauling the last box out of the back of the truck. “A well-paid secretary, sure, but they won’t let me _do_ anything remotely interesting. This job was supposed to let me manage more than two people at a time, and instead I’m doing my own managers’ errands.”

“I thought that was the dream,” I say. “Lots of money and no responsibilities.”

“Oh, I have responsibilities, they’re just not the ones I got two degrees for. The other day, one of my bosses invited me to a major planning meeting, and when I arrived it turned out that she wanted me there to take coffee orders and pick them up from the Starbucks down the street.”

Brian carries two canvases into the elevator. “Have you told them they’re wasting your talents?”

“I tried. Twice. Both the managers I talked to said that I needed to wait my turn, that _these things take time_.”

I join the two of them in the elevator and press fifty-five. “So you’ll just be stuck stapling forms and delivering sandwiches until a higher-up deems you ready to do your own job? That sucks.”

“It’s the mark of a company that thinks they’re better than they are,” Brian says. “Ignoring their employees’ offerings in favor of maintaining some artificial hierarchy.”

The elevator doors open. I hold them while the others carry the paintings and boxes into the hallway and through the door to my studio.

“I can’t disagree there,” I hear Frances say. “But the best I can do is just wait it out, I guess.”

When I get inside the studio, I notice that Brian has on the expression he usually only gets when he’s plotting out a photoshoot in his head or developing a seduction plan for a trick at a bar.

“Where’d you go to school?” he asks.

Frances sighs. “Columbia for undergrad, CMU for my master’s. But everyone at the firm has credentials that good, if not better.”

“MBA in finance?”

“Yeah.”

Brian picks up a stray paintbrush from the floor and twirls it in one hand. Then he grins.

“Frances,” he says, “how would you like to quit your job?”


End file.
